Cianna found herself looking over her shoulder as she walked back to her apartment, the bag of groceries held loosely enough to allow her to defend herself if necessary. Walking up the stairs to her apartment, she peered around the corner at every landing, half-expecting to find someone lying in wait for her.
It was silly, she knew. No one was after her. She’d paid whatever debt she owed to anyone, and then some. Those from her past had neither right nor reason to pursue her. All the same, she turned the deadbolt behind her when she got inside her apartment, and latched the chain.
She put the groceries away, sat on her couch, staring at the wall. She tried to put the thoughts of what had happened years before out of her mind, tried to force herself to think about something else. There was nothing else to think about, though. Her life had once meant something. Now . . .
She looked around her apartment, taking in the stains on the rug and the paint-splashed walls stubbled with the dirt and grime of a long line of the destitute who had preceded her in the tiny abode. How had she come to this?
Akhtar Hazara stepped off the plane in Boston with a sense of apprehension and excitement. It felt to him as though every passenger on the plane had regarded him with suspicion and fear, and he was eager to be as far away from the airport as possible. He’d dressed well, in a western suit and collared shirt, but there was no way to conceal his ethnicity, and as he boarded the 747 at London’s Heathrow Airport for the last leg of his journey he could tell that his mere presence made many on his flight nervous.
He didn’t mind, really. He even understood it at some level. After all the images that had been flashed into the American psyche of young men who looked remarkably like him against the background of destruction from the World Trade Center to the Pentagon to Lockerbie to Luxor, he supposed the fear was unavoidable. Rational though it might be, he would be glad to get away from the airport, where he could more easily blend into the background of America’s streets.
He had only one carry-on bag, which contained an empty, ornately adorned wooden box and a change of clothing. The box drew a curious look from the customs official, but only for a moment. Then he was passed through and out into the bustling maul of Logan Airport. From there he headed out to the curb and caught a cab.
The address he gave the driver was for a quiet bar downtown near the TD Banknorth Garden, the enormous arena where two of the local athletic teams played their games. Akhtar had studied briefly in America, at George Washington University in DC. It had cost more money than he could imagine, but his uncle was convinced it was worth it. Gamol had helped out financially, he knew. While there, he’d tried to follow American sports, but he found them pointless and complicated, with their arcane and illogical rules. He preferred European football and cricket.
He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. He’d developed a taste for booze when he’d lived in the States, and he savored the flavor as he sipped. He didn’t drink around his uncle, who still held firm to the Muslim prohibition against alcohol.
The man arrived a few moments later. He was tall, with hair so short the scalp was visible. He wore civilian clothes, but they were clean and pressed and orderly. All that was missing was a rank insignia. He sidled up to Akhtar and put a newspaper on the bar. ‘Have you just arrived?’ It was a simple code.
‘Yes,’ Akhtar said. ‘The flight from London was very smooth.’
The other man nodded. The bartender was far enough away that they could not be heard. ‘He’s here in Boston,’ he said. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s at his sister’s place. You’ll spot her; she’s a real looker.’
‘And Stillwell?’ Akhtar asked.
‘He’s here, too.’ The man stood up, nodded at the paper folded on the bar. ‘There’s an address and a map, as well as some additional information that will be helpful for you,’ he said. ‘We’ve arranged for a rental car, but we cannot be involved beyond this.’
‘I understand,’ Akhtar said. ‘It is better for both of us this way.’
‘Good luck.’ The man stood up and turned. Before he walked away, though, he addressed Akhtar once more. ‘Stay with the girl,’ he said.
Akhtar looked at him, confused. ‘The girl?’
‘Phelan’s sister. Keep your eye on her. The kid’s a fuck-up, but she’s the real deal. I read her file. If things start to go to shit, stick with her, she’ll lead you where you need to be. You understand?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Akhtar said.
‘You will.’ The man walked away quickly, leaving Akhtar sitting alone at the bar. He picked up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm, threw back the remaining whiskey, put the glass back on the bar, pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the bar before he followed the man out.